Particularly Stiff

Last Friday I went to the graduation of this past year’s CPE (Clinical Pastoral Education) students in the meditation room of the hospital where I was employed until quite recently. (So far I have not regretted the decision to leave.) It has been years since I’ve been to a CPE graduation, though there is one every year, but this group was special, and I also didn’t want to miss the chance to be with the Spiritual Care team. I was trying to figure out what made this group so great and I think it’s because, of the four students, two were people that everyone automatically and immediately loves. That is an excellent percentage. 

Before the formal part of the program, we had lunch together and several people ad hoc told me what they appreciate about me. An array of stellar qualities was mentioned. I felt seen and loved. Then one person whose first language is not English warmly told me that what he likes about me is that I’m “stiff—very stiff.” Also, I’m a “perfectionist” who insists that “the chair be in the right spot.” (I swear I never said anything about a chair.) I asked, “Are these compliments??” I think everyone in the room was getting quite a kick out of this, but I knew he meant every word to convey love and admiration, and I sincerely thanked him.

Between my co-workers telling what they like about me and the graduation itself, the room was overflowing with love and good vibes.

Afterward, I walked all the way back home. It was a beautiful sunny afternoon.

The next day, Tom and I went in a Zipcar to the house of a relative of his for a Labor Day weekend gathering in Sacramento. We detoured a bit to pick up one of Tom’s brothers. The playlist I had made for the drive was Electric Light Orchestra and Average White Band, music from when Tom and I were in junior high. Tom’s brother was still in the shower, so I got out of the car—it was hot—and I danced in the street like a Las Vegas stripper, all by myself, to “Work To Do.” I danced like no one was watching, or like everyone was, knowing it was possibly my last chance to dance like that on a stunningly hot late summer day in the middle of the street in Sacramento. 

The gathering was wonderful. We sat around, we ate, we chatted; some people got in the swimming pool. I told people that I am moving to Michigan on Wednesday but added that they might hardly notice the difference; I am already planning to be in that exact same beautiful house for Thanksgiving. Thanks to Tom’s family, I have attended countless lovely gatherings and been to many gorgeous places over the nearly 30 years: Sacramento, The Sea Ranch, Mill Valley, San Rafael, a succession of very nice retirement communities. I remember a wonderful birthday party for Tom’s mother’s husband, whom I loved so much, on a searingly hot day near Santa Rosa.

Saturday evening, we gave Tom’s brother a ride back home under the dazzling purple evening sky.

Yesterday Tom and I made a last trip, for now, to Orphan Andy’s for lunch. The cute server was there, but a different server came to take our order. Oh, well. However, he then got called away and was detained elsewhere long enough that the cute server ended up taking our orders after all. After I said that I wanted a turkey melt, onion rings, and a huge amount of butter on the side, he said, in the tone of voice someone would use if they were squinting a little, “I know you.”

He brought the butter right away, in the kind of thing a cup of soup is served in. I began daintily eating it with a fork, as no spoon had been provided. After a while, he passed by, murmuring, “You’re going to spoil your lunch,” and he set down a second cup of butter. (I think I could have finished both, but I was also getting a little worried that I might vomit when I got near the bottom of the second cup of butter. I said to Tom that I hoped I was not going to barf and he said he hoped the same thing.)

Twice I saw the cute server do a charming thing: A table evidently would ask if he could take a photo, meaning a photo of them at this well-known Castro restaurant, and he would take the phone, walk over into a flattering beam of light and pretend that they had asked him for a selfie. So toward the end of our lunch, I told him we would like a selfie of him. (More me than Tom, I would say.) He said he was just pretending to take selfies of himself and he said he actually feels awkward taking them, so he handed me back the phone and I took several photos of him, so now I have several completely adorable pictures of the cute server! A very wonderful last-time-for-now outing to Orphan Andy’s.

Today, by going over there with two heavy boxes, I discovered something that may be of interest to others, as well: The post office is not open on Labor Day. (And nor is P. O. Plus.) Oh, well. It is another gorgeous afternoon, a nice day for two boxes to enjoy a pleasant cab ride to the post office and back.

I still can’t believe that I might be leaving San Francisco, but my mood is one of equanimity: The fickle finger of fate has spoken, as it were; with its knuckly gyrations, its pointing this way and that, somehow the day of departure has nearly arrived.